


Hotel Hell

by Sarbear08



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fake Sex, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Hiding in Plain Sight, Hotels, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, POV John Watson, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Smut, These idiots are in love, awkward cab rides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24595114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarbear08/pseuds/Sarbear08
Summary: “Take your clothes off,” Sherlock demanded.“I’m sorry, what? It sounded like you said ‘take your clothes off.’”“I did. Now do it.”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 339





	Hotel Hell

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [your body will haunt mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12839010) by [wollfgang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wollfgang/pseuds/wollfgang). 



“Where’s Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, clearly growing more and more impatient by the second.

“I’m not sure,” John said, glancing around the police station as if Sherlock would magically appear at any moment. “He wandered off some time ago. Said he had something to see to. You know how he is.”

“Find. Him,” Lestrade seethed. “He is the only bloody person who can figure out where our victim was staying.”

“Alright,” John relented, grabbing his coat and heading out to wave down a cab.

His phone buzzed with a new message alert just as he left the station. The message was an address, followed by the initials _SH_.

“That was easy,” John mumbled. “Taxi!”

******

John very quickly discovered the address Sherlock had sent him was the address for a hotel—most likely the same hotel their victim had been a guest at. John spotted Sherlock waiting in the lobby almost immediately.

“Sherlock? How did you get here?” John asked, walking up to him. “Wait. Let me guess: you knew he was staying here from the…dust particles on the clothes he was wearing? And the way he’d styled his hair with products from the hotel. Probably also from the pillow marks on his face specific only to the pillows used at this hotel.”

“Hmm? Ah, with this,” Sherlock said, triumphantly holding up a hotel key labeled ‘room twenty-one.’

“Oh. Where’d you get that then?”

“The body.”

John furrowed his eyebrows. “But there was no key found on the body.”

“That’s because it’s right here,” Sherlock said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“You’re not supposed to do that,” John muttered defeatedly.

“And people aren’t supposed to murder each other, yet here we are.” Sherlock spun on his heel, heading off towards the nearest elevator. “Are you coming?”

John rolled his eyes, but decided against arguing further and dutifully followed Sherlock up to room twenty-one.

******

“What is it that we’re looking for, exactly?” John asked, turning around just in time to see Sherlock staring down an orange left behind on the counter before shaking his head and moving on.

“I’ll know it when I see it,” Sherlock mumbled distractedly.

“Right. And how will I know it?” John asked.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he paused for a moment, glancing at John. He opened his mouth, then shut it again before going back to searching through the mini fridge.

“Keep looking,” he insisted.

A few moments passed in which John looked for something, although he wasn’t quite sure what that ‘something’ was.

“Aha!” Sherlock exclaimed before hurriedly leaving the room.

“Wha–? Sherlock!” John called, running after him. “What did you find?” he asked once they were back in the elevator.

“This.” Sherlock held out a piece of paper. John took it, squinting in an attempt to read the too-tiny print.

“It’s for his luggage.”

“Yes John! Luggage that he never picked up. Must have been killed before he had the chance.”

“Ah, well done,” John complemented Sherlock.

“I know,” Sherlock responded, jumping out of the elevator and into the lobby before the doors had fully opened.

“Of course,” John sighed, jogging after Sherlock.

“We just have to find it,” Sherlock mumbled to himself as he began to search through the carts filled with luggage near the front desk.

“Right, I don’t suppose you know what it looks like?” John asked skeptically.

Sherlock scoffed. “I’m not a mind reader, John.” A pause. “Check the tags, they should have the room number on them.”

John chose a luggage cart and began to search through, diligently checking each tag as he went for one belonging to room number twenty-one.

“Nothing over here,” he told Sherlock as he moved onto the next cart.

“Oh no.”

John glanced up to see Sherlock frozen like a picturesque statue, staring at something across the lobby.

“Oh no? What’s oh no? Sherlock?” John asked, tugging at the other man’s sleeve.

“Those men,” Sherlock said, raising a finger in the direction of four men who’d just entered the hotel lobby. They wore what were assumably wildly expensive suits, and from the stern, no-nonsense looks on their faces, they were more than capable of fucking shit up—said shit most likely being Sherlock given his reaction to their untimely presence.

“Oh, that’s not good,” said John.

“Very not good. They can’t see me,” Sherlock said, unsuccessfully ducking behind the suitcases.

“Why?” John asked. “What happens if they see you?”

Sherlock avoided eye contact with John. “They might have orders to kill me if they see me.”

“Christ, _Sherlock,_ ” John hissed. “You can’t hide there, they’ll definitely see you!”

“Where else am I supposed to hide, John?” Sherlock gestured at the open-concept lobby.

For once, it was John who came up with a plan before Sherlock. It wasn’t a brilliant plan, really. If anything, it was actually quite a bad idea, but John much preferred Sherlock alive rather than dead. And so, John found himself tugging Sherlock into a small alcove conveniently located behind the front desk by his coat, where he promptly pushed him against the back wall and smashed their lips together.

Sherlock squirmed under John’s hands, but he held fast, making sure they were angled just so, so that Sherlock’s face wasn’t visible to anyone from the lobby. Judging by the slightly disturbed looks on the faces of the four men as they glanced in their direction, it was clear that this was certainly the best way to ensure the men didn’t bother them. Meanwhile, Sherlock was _melting_ in John’s arms, with John practically having to hold him up—it would be no good if Sherlock fell down and the men saw his face.

After scanning the lobby with gazes similar to that of a hawk, the men finally left, disappearing into the elevator. John kissed Sherlock for a moment longer—just in case the men happened to come back—before he stepped back. He kept one arm wrapped around Sherlock’s skinny waist, the other holding onto the front of his coat, seeing as it appeared Sherlock wasn’t currently able to support his own weight.

“So sorry,” John said, his voice coming out an octave higher than he’d meant. “Ahem. It– it was the only thing I could think of. They’re gone now,” he added, nodding towards the lobby.

“Ah, of course,” Sherlock nodded dazedly.

“You okay?” John asked, slowly removing his hands from Sherlock.

Sherlock’s head bobbed up and down in a motion that John assumed was supposed to be a nod.

“Come on then, let’s find this suitcase so we can get out of here.”

“Ye–yep.”

John gave Sherlock a small tug on his sleeve, pulling him back towards the luggage.

“Quite clever,” Sherlock mumbled as he stumbled after John.

******

“I’ve got it!” John announced, lifting up a rather drab looking overnight bag for Sherlock to see.

“Hmm? Ah, yes. W–wonderful John.” Sherlock uncharacteristically stumbled through his words—perhaps those men had frightened him more than he’d let on.

“Upstairs?” John asked. “Won’t have to worry about those men coming back.” He shifted uncomfortably, clearly remembering with a rush of heat to his cheeks the feel of Sherlock’s lips, soft and gentle against his own.

“Sherlock?” John reiterated when the detective didn’t answer his question.

Sherlock blinked. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Upstairs? Coming?” John repeated.

“Ah, yes. That would be best. Better not risk another run in with those men.”

“You okay, Sherlock?” John asked, taking a step towards the detective.

“Yep, just fine,” Sherlock squeaked as he sidestepped John and made a rather desperate beeline for the elevator.

It was the longest elevator ride either of them had ever been on. Sherlock was nearly as white as a sheet and John felt as though the deafening silence might just wrap itself around his throat and hold tight.

When the doors finally opened with a resounding _ding,_ Sherlock nearly leapt headfirst out through the doors, leaving John to jog after him.

Once they were back in hotel room twenty-one, John forced himself to focus as Sherlock laid out the contents of the suitcase across the small couch then stepped back, steepling his fingers under his chin as he studied them.

By now, John knew it was best just to wait until Sherlock was done his deducing. He took a seat on the edge of the bed and tried not to think about what had just happened between them downstairs. He hoped Sherlock wasn’t cross with him.

John watched as Sherlock picked up a sock and studied it for a moment before replacing it. He did the same with an overly worn belt, then a toothbrush before turning to John to say, “wallet.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Wallet.” Sherlock repeated, extending his hand palm up towards John.

“Ah, right,” John said, leaping up.

He fetched the wallet they’d found in the room earlier and placed it in Sherlock’s outstretched hand. John hovered around Sherlock for a moment before heading back to his spot on the edge of the bed.

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed. “Those men. They killed our victim. They were hired.”

“Hired? By who?” John asked, intrigued.

“Not sure. Yet.”

Both men jumped at a loud crash coming from somewhere outside the room.

“I’ll check it out, you stay hidden,” John said, heading to the door. He poked his head out just in time to see the same group of men who’d walked through the lobby earlier just down the hall, forcing their way into every room. Not good.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked from directly behind John, making him jump in surprise.

“They’re coming. Searching all the rooms.” John shut the door. “We have to get out of here.”

“Won’t make it to the stairs,” Sherlock pointed out, eyes darting wildly around the room.

“What about the window?”

“It’s a sheer ten story drop, smooth walls, no way to climb down.”

The noises from the hallway were growing dangerously close.

“Although I’m beginning to think jumping out the window may very well be our best option,” Sherlock added.

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking,” Sherlock said. “Think think thinkthinkthink. Oh!” he exclaimed. “That’s brilliant!”

His hands flew to the front of his shirt and he began to undo the buttons.

“Take your clothes off,” he demanded.

“I’m sorry, what? It sounded like you said ‘take your clothes off.’”

“I did. Now do it.”

“Sherlock this is ridiculous, I’m not going to–”

“John, the second those men come through that door and see who I am, we are both dead. I need you to trust me. Do you trust me, John?” Sherlock’s steel blue eyes locked with John’s as he threw his shirt across the room.

It was a simple answer, really. _Yes._ It would always be yes.

John avoided Sherlock’s eyes as he began to unbutton his own shirt, discarding it in the same manner as Sherlock had with his, throwing it down by the foot of the bed. People were certainly going to talk now.

When he brought himself to look up again, his face reddened as he saw Sherlock’s trousers fly in the opposite direction his shirt had gone. John gulped audibly as Sherlock began to remove his undershirt.

“Quickly,” Sherlock hissed, the footsteps nearly outside their door. “Pants can stay on,” he added, though it brought little comfort to John.

Sherlock strode to the bed and slipped under the covers, unceremoniously dragging John on top of him. John just barely managed to catch his weight on his arms, which were currently situated on either side of Sherlock. As Sherlock arranged the sheets over them just so, making it look like they were fully nude, John desperately tried to slow the beating of his heart lest he have a heart attack right here on top of Sherlock.

“ _This_ is your plan?” he squeaked.

“Yes. Now come closer,” Sherlock hissed. “This has to look believable.”

John carefully lowered himself a fraction, still keeping a fairly respectable distance between them.

Sherlock’s slender fingers tightened on John’s hips and with one strong motion, pulled John down. He let out a grunt as he landed on Sherlock, surprised by his strength. John suddenly felt all too hot pressed chest to chest with Sherlock and–

Footsteps echoed from the hallway, getting closer by the second. Sherlock eyed John for a moment before reminding him, “make it believable,” to which John gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

Something in Sherlock’s gaze shifted, his eyes darkening to a dangerous shade. John worried the detective might bore a hole straight through his skull if he continued looking at him like _that._

“ _John,_ ” Sherlock breathed, his voice dropping an octave. Then he closed his eyes and let out the most obscene moan John had ever heard. He diligently shifted his hips away from Sherlock’s in an attempt to avoid as much embarrassment as possible.

John vaguely heard the lock of the room click open and footsteps approach, but Sherlock didn’t give him time to register much more than that. He hooked his legs around John’s ankles and pulled him down, unceremoniously smashing their lips together for the second time that day. John only spluttered for a brief moment and then he was kissing back just as exuberantly as Sherlock was and fuck it if this was all just an act. It was a pretty damn good one. Sherlock moaned into his mouth before pulling back slightly and rolling his hips once in a teasing sort of motion.

“Oh _John,_ ” he moaned.

The sound of Sherlock saying his name like _that_ went directly southwards in a rush of heat. There was a gasp from somewhere near the doorway, but neither man took much notice.

John dropped his head to Sherlock’s shoulder, panting into the skin of his neck. If he had to look at the intensity in Sherlock’s piercing eyes any longer, he wasn’t going to last and this would all have a rather embarrassing end—not that it wouldn’t already.

Thankfully, the footsteps receded quite quickly, followed by the sound of the door clicking shut, leaving them alone once more—thankfully the man must not have come close enough to see Sherlock’s face. His fingers still dug into John’s hips, sure to leave bruises in their wake.

“They’re gone now,” Sherlock mumbled in between gasps for breath and gave John a gentle push. The doctor obeyed, rolling off of Sherlock.

Sherlock slipped out from under the covers and busied himself getting dressed, not even so much as glancing in John’s direction once.

_What a pity,_ John thought. He really would’ve liked to finish what they started.

******

As it turned out, it took a total of sixteen officers—not including Lestrade—to successfully subdue the four highly trained men just outside the hotel.

“Tell me again, how did you know they would be here?” Lestrade asked.

John shifted uncomfortably, readjusting his jacket to cover his lap. He noticed Sherlock doing the same thing before he distractedly re-told—more like bragged—the story of how he’d solved the case and much to John’s relief, left out a number of details involving mouths touching and a rather obvious lack of clothing.

“Right,” Lestrade said slowly, his supposedly inferior mind still processing the information he’d just been given. “And how did you say you avoided them?”

“Hiding in plain sight,” Sherlock said smugly, though there was a hint of blush rising on his cheeks.

“Right,” Lestrade repeated—it certainly didn’t take a genius to deduce the gist of what had happened.

Thankfully, Lestrade finished with them quite quickly and sent them on their way. Sherlock was gone in a flurry of Belstaff and already climbing into a cab when John caught up to him outside the hotel.

The cab ride was awkward at best, with Sherlock staring resolutely out the window the whole duration of the ride. Somehow of their own accord, their hands managed to find their way to one another, silently tangling together on the seat between them. Neither man moved to pull their hand away—John figured that, at least, was a good sign.

When the cab finally pulled up outside Baker Street though, Sherlock ripped his hand from John’s and disappeared into the flat before John even had a chance to blink, leaving him to pay the fare. Typical, though at least some of their familiar normality had returned.

John slowly made his way up the stairs to their flat, shuffling his feet as went. He had barely entered the flat and shut the door when he found himself pressed against said door with Sherlock looming over him just inches away. He was so close, in fact, that one of his legs had made its way between John’s thighs, pushing up and up and up and John thought his knees might give out from the new wave of arousal that washed over him.

Sherlock tipped forwards at an agonizingly slow pace until their foreheads were pressed together. They stayed like that for a moment, John too afraid that if he moved, his knees would buckle or even worse, he’d scare Sherlock into retreating to his room and pretending that this whole ordeal had never happened. But it had. And John couldn’t forget that.

Sherlock tilted his head down until his lips brushed tentatively against John’s, just barely grazing them. The contact only lasted for a second or two, but the electric effect it had on John was sure to stick around for a while.

Sherlock surprised John for what was likely the millionth time that day when he reached up and slowly brushed his thumb across John’s bottom lip, his eyes darting between John’s eyes and his lips.

“What was that?” John asked, his voice trembling more than he’d like to admit.

“A kiss,” Sherlock said as he tipped towards John again, seemingly pulled towards him by some unseen gravitational force.

“Gee, I’m starting to think you’re just finding excuses to kiss me,” John said with a weak laugh.

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed, and to John’s surprise added, “and what if I am.”

“For real this time,” John whispered.

“Oh. You want to kiss me for real?”

“Oh god, yes. And Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“This time, for love of God, _don’t stop._ ”

It appeared that was all the encouragement Sherlock needed to swoop down and capture John’s mouth with his own. The kiss was much less chaste this time around and John let out a rather embarrassing moan as Sherlock’s tongue conducted an exploratory search of his mouth.

Sherlock’s hands rose up to grip at John’s waist and John let out an involuntary sigh at the action. He gripped at the lapels of Sherlock’s Belstaff, quite sure that that—along with Sherlock’s weight pressing them against the door of the flat—was currently the only thing holding him up and keeping him from crumpling into a boneless heap on the floor. Sherlock’s mouth moved from John’s lips to his jaw, then neck as he continued his ministrations with those glorious lips and tongue and teeth.

John’s hands pushed the Bestaff from Sherlock’s shoulders and it fell to the ground in a plume of expensive wool. Sherlock somehow managed to press even further against John without breaking the door behind them clean off its hinges—Mrs. Hudson would certainly not be pleased about that. In order to avoid such an unfortunate situation, John pushed firmly against Sherlock’s chest until they were backing down the hall towards Sherlock’s bedroom. They managed to stumble their way down the hall without separating their lips, only running into a wall once—okay, twice—divesting themselves of various articles of clothing as they went.

John’s fingers fumbled with the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt as they backed towards the bed. _Since when did Sherlock have so many damn buttons?_ John thought incredulously. He tugged impatiently at the fabric until he finally gave up and simply ripped the shirt open, sending the buttons flying in all directions.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, having enough sense to look rather scandalized.

“Can’t wait,” John breathed, pushing the shirt off Sherlock’s shoulders and capturing his lips with his own, hands exploring the newly exposed pale flesh. Sherlock—keeping true to everything else he did—managed to effortlessly remove the remainder of John’s clothing in a swift and systematic fashion.

They fell onto the bed, limbs tangling together, hands and mouths exploring any flushed skin they could reach. Sherlock hauled John on top him, slotting their hips together and– _oh. That was really quite wonderful,_ John thought.

“ _John,_ ” Sherlock moaned for real this time, arching up and into him.

John let his hands wander down to brush against Sherlock’s lean stomach, across his ribs, his hips, and lower–

“John,” Sherlock breathed against his neck. “ _Please._ ”

This time, there was no gang of assassins. No ruse to keep up. No false pretenses.

This was _real,_ and it was quite clear that they both wanted this. Wanted each other. Perhaps even _needed_ each other like they needed air to breathe.

And so, if they stayed in bed for the rest of the day—and perhaps the next day as well—who could blame them?


End file.
